


Doxology

by dark_muse_iris



Series: BTS Oneshot Stories [4]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Play, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_muse_iris/pseuds/dark_muse_iris
Summary: It's Easter Sunday, one of the holiest of days for your presumed faith. But instead of spending it taking in the Lord's message while tucked between your devout parents, you're off sinning with the man who knows how truly wicked you are.Excerpt:The words ring hollow in your heart, but they nevertheless bellow from your well-trained lungs in unison with the overdressed churchgoers flanking you on either side. Like cattle bred for a single purpose, you stand in front of your worn, wooden pew to take from the trough of organized religion, or at least pretend to. Appearances are everything in the church, and you know it all too well as your fingers pluck against the pages of the hymnal you don't need. The words on the aged paper are inscribed in your mind from years of repetition—no, conditioning—but they don't hold the meaning they once did.





	Doxology

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
> 
> Genre: Smut, light fluff
> 
> Warning: Dom!Jungkook, sexual themes, fingering, rough sex, anal play, creampie, dirty talk, sacrilegious dialogue, excessive sinning in church, mocking religious practices, profanity, one-way trip to Hell
> 
> A/N: This is probably not the kind of thing a devout person should read. It’s pretty offensive and I’m proud of it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

_Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;_

_Praise Him, all creatures here below;_

_Praise Him above, ye heav'nly host;_

_Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost._

_Ahhhhh-mennnnn._

 

The words ring hollow in your heart, but they nevertheless bellow from your well-trained lungs in unison with the overdressed churchgoers flanking you on either side. Like cattle bred for a single purpose, you stand in front of your worn, wooden pew to take from the trough of organized religion, or at least pretend to. Appearances are everything in the church, and you know it all too well as your fingers pluck against the pages of the hymnal you don't need. The words on the aged paper are inscribed in your mind from years of repetition—no, conditioning—but they don't hold the meaning they once did.

The air feels thicker than usual because today is Easter, one of the "holiest of holy days," if one is inclined to believe in all that. The pews are stuffed with participants, hoping to show the pastor—no, the eccentrically-dressed shepherd with over-shined shoes—they are every bit as devout when it matters. And today it matters, as Communion is involved.

You don't count yourself among the flock of devotees, having spent your last several years in the research labs of the local university studying biology. The scientific method and pursuit of knowledge are your belief system now, through and through, but after making the mistake of trying to convert your parents to your views on evolution last Christmas, you were branded a family concern. According to your parents, you were at risk of "losing your way" and "falling prey to the brainwashing of a liberal arts education."

So, here you are, tucked between your parents in your knee-length Easter dress like a prodigal child in need of reform. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at how everyone around you blindly follows the musings of the pastor Sunday after Sunday, but you don't dare speak a word about it. You don't think dismantling their belief system is worth being compelled by your high-strung mother to attend on Wednesdays as well. Sundays are a concession in your view, as they give you a break from writing your dissertation and corresponding research grant proposals. You only wish now, more than anything, that you had decided to attend a grad school on the other side of the country where your parents would be less inclined to snoop into every area of your life.

"Why don't you all turn around and make your neighbor feel welcome on this fine Sunday morning?" the pastor exclaims with a booming voice.

Ugh. You hate this part, the communal exchange of germs when flu season had just ended. Most of the attendees in your church have known each other for many years and therefore have no reservations about going in for the full hug as opposed to shaking hands. It’s invasive and if you were being honest, you suspect some of the older members of the flock just want to get close enough to glean a passing whiff of your perfume.

As the laughs and greetings fill the room up to the vaulted ceilings, you catch a glimpse of him—Jeon Jungkook—making his rounds from aisle to aisle while sporting a painfully attractive charcoal suit. The wine-colored button-up shirt he paired with it has the top button unfastened and you know he’s teasing every single woman under forty with that selection. _How fitting for Communion_ , you muse wickedly, peeking at his exposed chest with zero guilt. He looks into your eyes, the corners of his lips turned upright, as he shuffles between pews to approach you.

"Good morning all," he greets your family cheerfully, hand extended to your father first. "Happy Easter!"

"Happy Easter, Jungkook," your father replies with a firm handshake. "How are your folks? I didn’t see them at the prayer breakfast this morning."

"My mom's sick and Father's still out of the country, I'm afraid," Jungkook answers, side-stepping along the pew with open arms to offer your mother a tender hug instead of you.

 _Well done_ , you chuckle under your breath, your stomach fluttering from the scent of his cologne as he passes by.

"Happy Easter, sweetheart." Your mother embraces Jungkook like he was as good as family. "I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Perhaps I can bring her some soup this afternoon? Would that be okay?"

"She'd like that very much, ma'am. She hasn't had any visitors."

"Poor thing,” your mother responds with an expressive pout. “Well, all right. This afternoon, then. I’ll bring some chicken noodle and hopefully, she’ll be right as rain for the women's luncheon next Sunday."

“I know she’s been looking forward to it,” he comments. “She praises your potato salad.”

Your mother beams at the compliment and you know she’s resisting the urge to hug him again. She’s a hugger, probably more than is socially appropriate.

Jungkook's deep, dark eyes return to yours and he smiles gently, opening the door of communication in a way that won't arouse suspicion. You return the amiable look with a modest handshake, akin to greeting a mere acquaintance.

"Good morning," you speak first, keeping your voice steady. "On break too?"

"Yep,” he answers, “although I have some grant writing to do after this. Funding, you know. I always need more money."

His thumb taps your hand twice and you squeeze his palm again before releasing it.

"I do, it sucks. I'm hoping a nice, big grant will fall in my lap soon."

"I'm sure it will," he assures you with a nod of understanding. "Your research is really something."

You bob your head in time with his and grin. "So is yours, from what I remember at Christmas. I hope we both get what we need so we can finish our degrees this decade."

His eyes flicker as he presses his lips together, regrouping to offer a closing salutation. "I'll be sure to pray over it today, for both of us. Hope you all have a nice Easter."

"You too, Jungkook," your mother interjects, leaning forward to stress the point as the attractive man leaves to return to his pew. Turning to you, she frowns. "How come you never hug him when he comes over?"

"I never hug anyone," you remind her, trying to contain your amusement.

Your father leans over to contribute to the discourse. "He's a nice young man, ___. A good Christian."

"And you both like science,” your mother adds with a hint of desperation. “Give him a chance, honey. He could be the father of your children someday. You're wasting time.”

"Seriously, you guys? On Easter?" you scold them. Your parents share a concerned look with each other and your mother shifts uncomfortably in her seat. You assume she will try to approach the topic from another angle, so before she has a chance for a rebuttal, you summon a deflection.

"I think he was just being nice because it’s Easter. Pretty sure he's dating someone in the handbell choir or something, or at least he was.”

She raises an eyebrow in suspicion. “What do you mean? You don’t know for sure?”

“It’s not my business,” you state in an uninterested tone.

Your mother's lips sink in disappointment. "Well, I'll just ask his mother this afternoon and find out for sure."

"Mom, church isn't a dating pool," you counter in annoyance.

"Nonsense,” she dismisses with a chuckle. “How else are God's children supposed to meet?"

"Your mother's right," your father agrees. "You certainly can't use that Timber site."

"It's Tinder, Dad."

"It's un-Christian."

* * *

 

The service drags on for what seems like forever. Another hymn. A Scripture reading. A painfully off-key Easter performance from the children's program. And then, as your head droops with the sluggishness of inescapable boredom, the sermon begins.

You never considered the power of church showmanship as a child, but now, as a seasoned adult attendee, it is all you can see. It doesn't matter whether the pastor actually believes everything he preaches from the pulpit, really. The only thing that counts is the performance, how he crosses the stage from right to left in his shiny shoes, working the crowd like an auctioneer with the greatest bargain to offer. A gifted orator, the man could spin a yarn and captivate an audience for nearly an hour if he wanted. And often times, it was exactly what he wanted—or what the Holy Spirit wanted, according to him.

Today, more than anything, you hope for a lengthy and compelling message to ensnare everyone and hold their attention. It’s your sincerest hope, on Easter morning, that time slows to a crawl and keeps them suspended in the sermon for as long as possible. The heightened participation in the room suggests you may get what you want.

The crowd of believers stir in their seats, preparing their hearts and minds to receive their next dose of faith, and they begin to offer hyped messages of support to their leader at his urging. The commotion creates the perfect opportunity to sneak a quick glance at Jungkook's pew, only to discover his seat is vacant and he’s nowhere nearby.

 _Quick retreat, he must have escaped during the children's song_ , you deduce.

Leaning toward your mother, you place a hand on your abdomen and murmur, "I don't feel well. I'm going to take a step out and try to get some air. It's stuffy."

She huffs as her eyes offer the briefest bout of concern before she dismisses you with pursed lips. You know she's just going through the motions of motherhood today; she's far more interested in taking in the exact same message she received a year ago, and the year before that.

You slip past her legs in a brisk side-shuffle and exit through the rear door connecting to the hallway leading to the Sunday school rooms. Once the door closes completely and you are certain you're alone, your feet take flight as you bound quickly over several yards of detestable, turquoise carpet.

After turning two corners, you find yourself in front of the last room in that wing, an old children's classroom that has since become additional storage for excess toys and furniture. Your palms are hot and your chest heaves with eager anticipation. The chill of the metal doorknob serves to ground you as you inhale a deep breath and open the door.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, but you see him there, standing expectantly in the center of the room. He has already removed his suit jacket, and you feel his intent as he peers in your direction, diligently rolling up his shirt sleeves. The display is enough to make your mouth water for all the things to come, but you move slowly, reluctant to break your line of sight.

As you turn around to close the door behind you—and lock it—you hear the soft thuds of his shoes moving closer.

"You got here earlier than I expected," you whisper into the grain of the door in front of you. "Are you hoping for a long sermon as much as I am?"

"I was here yesterday and I saw him practice for a bit," Jungkook answers lowly. "We have some time to really savor it."

"Good." The word slips desperately off your tongue. "I've been wet since you touched me."

He chuckles as his hands creep up the sides of your dress to clutch your breasts, his fingers conveying possession. "Is that right? Tsk, I hope you prayed to absolve yourself. You should be pure of heart, free from temptation."

His firm body presses against yours and your hand reaches behind your waist to grab the growing bulge housed in his dress slacks.

"You're my temptation."

A metallic whir sounds softly in the darkness as your breath increases its pace. The fabric of your dress falls to pool at your ankles and Jungkook's fingertips return to grace your breasts again, lavishing caresses on the soft mounds of flesh. You arch your back, pressing the curve of your ass against his rigid tent to communicate your longing. The straps of your bra begin to slip under his movements and when you scramble to discard it, he rewards you with pinches to your nipples. He bites your shoulder to match the sting in your breasts and you gasp as you're reminded why you often submit to him: he never leaves a spot of flesh unappreciated.

The pads of his fingers inch slowly down your stomach and dip into your panties. The motion is careful and calculated, like he's visiting for the first time, and it makes you feel like you'll drown in his pull over you. It has been too long and you know that now, taking in the intoxicating scent of his cologne, your core thrumming as it recalls the ache of waiting for him to be in the same room again.

A rough press to your clit makes your body jerk, but the motion rebounds against his large frame as he moves to enclose you, mere inches from the door.

"Do you want to feel closer to God?" he proposes, gliding his tongue wickedly along the shell of your right ear. Nibbling at its corner, he marks you for his own as he awaits your answer.

“God, yes,” you whisper with urgency, rocking roughly against the touch of his skilled hand.

“Mm, breaking the Third Commandment already?" he mocks with the softest press of his lips to the pulse point of your neck. "You must have missed these fingers, darling.”

“You know I did.”

He hums from the back of his throat as he flips your body over to press your back against the door. His fingers pull your panties aside and sink into your folds, the bold intrusion rendering you light-headed with lust.

“I’m sure it was hard for you,” he continues with a feigned tone of pity, “sitting with your parents like a good and faithful servant of our Lord every Sunday. Tell me, darling, what excuse did you give them this time?”

Struggling to form coherent words for all the wanton wickedness seizing your body and your consciousness, you rest the back of your head against the door, tongue flicking against the corners of your lips as you try to form a response.

"I said it was stuffy and I didn't feel well."

"Oh?” Jungkook sounds amused. “You didn't say you were skipping down the hall to get stuffed with my cock?"

A low whine resounds from within you as his fingertips brush coaxing, tormenting touches against the neediest place in your walls. He always knows just what to say to get you off, with embarrassing efficiency. It is his gift, and the years you both have spent growing up in restrictive, religious households make these trysts all the more invigorating.

Your frantic rush toward your end brings a smile to his face. "Careful," he teases, dragging his fingers more rapidly inside you. "You wouldn't want our sinful little dalliance to be discovered. Could you imagine the gossip? Your mother's face if she knew?"

The walls of your sex contract around his fingers with hard throbs as you think about how your parents still believe you're a virgin. It was almost comical as you were coming up on over two years of hookups with the wolf in sheep's clothing, your match in almost every way, burying his sinfully unclean hands in your folds every chance he could get.

"Fuck," you pant. "Please, Jungkook. More."

He accelerates the motion of his hand and leans close to your ear.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you," he whispers, dismantling your last defenses as you feel yourself crumble. "You are a garden fountain, a well of flowing water streaming down from Lebanon."

His quoting of Scripture turns your insides to ash as your legs tremble against the wooden door and your juices spill into his awaiting hand. Your chest rises and falls in quick breaths as you fight back the urges to moan aloud. The room blurs as Jungkook brushes his thumb over your vulva, easing you out of your high, but keeping you very much on his baited hook.

His voice cuts through the darkness. "I love feeling you fall apart."

"Hm," you reply with a smirk. "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—for your love is more delightful than wine."

Jungkook concedes with a chuckle. "Needy, needy."

The petals of his mouth part and your head lifts from the door to chase his taste. You don't care how needy you look in that moment, with his fingers still sheathed inside of you. You could house him forever with the magnetic attraction that has built between you. And he knows it well. His tongue slips past your lips and you greet it with zeal and unapologetic hunger, threading your fingers to tug at his raven locks. He returns your enthusiasm with a slow rotation of his fingers against your soaked walls until you begin whimpering into his mouth.

"You're trembling," he comments teasingly, tapping his thumb against your most sensitive nerve endings. Then he withdraws his hand from you, popping his glistening fingers into his mouth, allowing him to suck and swallow every remaining drop. "And you're as sweet as ever. Are you filled with the Spirit?"

You laugh, but quickly quiet yourself to avoid detection. "You're going to get struck down talking like that."

He takes your hand and pulls you further into the room, approaching a large, plastic kitchen playset meant for children. It looks like it has seen better days following many years of pretend play, but the thick, multi-colored material it was made from is sturdy enough to serve Jungkook's will. Pressing his hands against your upper back, he encourages you to bend over the top of the kitchen set's range hood. His thumbs hook into the waistband of your soiled panties and slide them gingerly down your legs. Unsurprisingly, the cloth is sticky and damp against the swollen, sopping lips that yearn for his touch again.

You stretch your arms out to brace yourself against the structure, back arched in anticipation, goosebumps alight on your skin as his index finger returns to your wet center. It dips inside of you and your throat contracts into a deep swallow as his fingertip drags out of your core and slowly traces a trail of slick back toward your puckered rim. The touch draws out a sharp inhale from your lungs as it encircles your nerve endings gently, enticingly, with the deft of a seasoned tormentor. Feeling him toy with you in such a wicked place is enough to make your walls throb and your mouth water.

"Would you miss me if I got struck down?" he asks, pushing the moistened tip in continuous circles.

Your aching core yearns with renewed vigor and it feels like it's on the verge of dripping arousal down your legs. "Of course, I would," you answer in a shaky breath. "I'd never have the pleasure of being this wet ever again."

Jungkook continues to stimulate. "That's because you know a good Christian would never touch your tight little hole this good, right?"

He slips his finger inside of you, past the muscled rim. He can’t be more than two centimeters in, but the way he wags his finger like a pendulum in a grandfather clock is enough to make you clasp your hand over your mouth. Blood rushes to your face at the shame and thrill of his prodding and you quickly nod your head, unable to speak for fear of squealing.

"Answer me," he commands lowly, continuing his sordid teases.

"Y-yes."

"Yes...? Be specific, darling."

His finger withdraws and you sigh shakily as his thumb takes its place and resumes its task.

"Yes, a good Christian would never touch it as good as you." A smile stretches across your face as you hear the words depart from your lips.

Jungkook keeps his thumb in place, anchoring you to the kitchen playset as he unbuckles his belt and unfastens his dress slacks with his free hand. The choice to keep you skewered by his thumb while he undresses sets your face aflame. It is the same thumb attached to the right hand that shook your father's hand less than an hour ago.

"And they wouldn't fuck you like the whore you love to play on Sundays," he adds, pressing the head of his hard cock against your slick folds. "Would they?"

The yearning in your body becomes unyielding as his swollen tip rubs up and down the crease between your legs. His thumb continues to knock inside your anus like a metronome and you bend lower to brace yourself against the range hood's surface. You know what is coming will not only be experienced—but endured—and you've never wanted to be so wrecked by a man in your life.

"They wouldn't," you tell him, spreading your legs as best he allows with the thumb controlling your position. "Only you can fuck me like I need. Please—"

"Please, what?" He punctuates the question by pushing only the head of his dick inside your eager core.

"Fuck me. _Please_ , fuck me," you beg, lifting your ass to spur him on.

Jungkook holds your waist with a firm grip and thrusts with the force of a man possessed, causing the air in your lungs to be expelled in a harsh gust. The sensation of his cock stretching against your walls at last, after months of separation, captivates with a thrilling sting.

"God, I've missed this cunt, this sweet"— _smack_ —"hot"— _smack_ —"cunt," he grunts, kneading the flesh at your hip with each powerful stroke. "Mm, with your little asshole squeezing around my thumb too. Such a filthy, heathen slut. You can't wait to come again, can you, darling?"

He resumes the movement of his thumb—pulling it out, only to slip it back in—as he continues to batter your folds with the unrelenting force of his charging hips chasing his high. Wet, squelching noises fill the room and it becomes increasingly difficult to silence your sounds of pleasure. He knows all the ways to break you and make you fall to pieces in a crumpled, fucked-out mess.

"Oh god, oh god...," you whine, hanging onto the kitchen playset with a tighter hold, causing the plastic spoons and spatulas to rattle against its colorful walls.

The jostling taps of the children's kitchenware compel him to withdraw his thumb and grab you by the hair, pulling you upright until you're close enough for his other hand to wrap around your neck.

"God is watching us fuck in His house right now," he rasps into your right ear, rolling his hips to strike your g-spot until your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

"Fuck me harder, then," you urge in a hoarse whisper.

His hand releases your neck and migrates upward to cover your mouth. It is coming. The final row is coming and your walls are already clenching from the anticipation of being pounded into until you can't see straight.

"Oh, I will," he assures, pressing his palm to your lips to silence you. "I want your pussy sore when you walk to the altar and take your Communion like a good little Christian."

You moan into his hand as he lets your hair loose and anchors to your hip, gripping it hard enough to bruise and remind you how good he's giving it to you.

His rigid shaft moves through you like a piston at its peak performance, an arrow in relentless pursuit of its target. The hand covering your mouth becomes damp as your lips part to release the cries percolating within your chest. He works diligently to keep you quiet, but even he struggles to contain his praises as you become utterly lost in each other, relishing in the lustful liturgy you seek to perform as fully as possible.

Barreling down the rabbit hole of desire together as one, your cacophony of noises causes your walls to clamp and contract in insatiable spasms. Jungkook's voice shakes in broken whispers behind you.

"I'm gonna miss you so much."

You can only nod your head as an all-consuming wave of pleasure sweeps you up and swallows you whole. It is too powerful for human communication, an earth-shattering release that makes your eyes close in blissful surrender and your throat vibrate in a pleased moan, muffled by his hand. Jungkook's breathing grows labored as the hand over your mouth starts to tremble, a signal he is fast approaching his end.

His palm falls to grab your right hip, granting him complete control of your shaking form to be used as he pleases. Disoriented from your subsiding orgasm, you can only manage to re-position your arms and arch your back to withstand him.

"Fill me up, fill me up," you chant in a hushed tone, your fingers hurting from grasping the playset, your loins burning from the friction of his unabating effort.

Jungkook presses his lips together and groans as his body surrenders to his baser needs, his emission painting translucence along your raw, aching walls. His rhythm slows considerably until his waist rolls languidly to milk the last of his release. His palm caresses your lower back tenderly and your heart warms in your chest. You live for the sweet gestures hidden in these moments with him. It is one of the things you know you'll miss the most when he returns to school.

His fingers tip-toe up your spine and you lift your body from the kitchen playset to turn and face him. He smiles at you with the kindest countenance, chuckling at how disheveled you appear.

"Your makeup smeared a little," he says, delicately brushing a few pieces of hair away from your face.

"I'll have to get cleaned up in the bathroom before I head back," you reply. "What time is it?"

"I think we missed most of the sermon. It was worth it, though."

Jungkook's arms pull you in close and he plants a small kiss on your forehead. Sadness stirs in your belly because you know it's the last time he'll hold you like this for a while.

"I need to get dressed," you mumble, breaking from his hold and swallowing down the feelings which are threatening to surface. Your bra, the most restrictive garment, is the first to go back on. You don't welcome the restriction, as everything feels like a prison again, but you try not to let your feelings spoil your last few moments with him.

Jungkook moves toward the door to retrieve your dress. He takes the fabric and forms a circle with it, then kneels at your feet to offer his shoulder to hang on to, allowing you an easy means of stepping back inside the dress. Your hand braces against him as you steady yourself, but the moment your feet are inside of the circle, his arms wrap around your legs and cling to you. Planting affectionate presses of his lips against your thighs and hips feels like goodbye, but you know he won't say the words and neither will you. They would hurt too much right now.

He pecks at the lips of your sex and pokes out his tongue, lapping softly at your flesh like he wants to remember every detail. The sweep of his muscle is endearing and feels like a seal on your body, locking you away for safekeeping. You swallow down the prickly pains in your throat and blink hard to will away the tears welling in your eyes.

"I wish we had more time," he confesses in a low tone. "I feel like I'm always leaving."

You release a deep sigh, carding your fingers into his hair as he continues to kneel. "When can we see each other again?" you ask, already dreading what he'll say. He stands and sighs as well.

"Summer break. There aren't any family birthdays between now and then."

You hear the pain in his voice and change the topic, not wanting either of you to cry like last time.

"My mom said she was going to ask your mom if you're seeing anyone when she stops by. Sorry, I couldn't block that one."

"That's okay, I'll be there this afternoon," he replies. You turn your back and feel him pull up your dress and zip your zipper back into place. His thoughtful consideration for making sure you are dressed first is another thing you will miss.

"She'll ask about a girl from handbell choir," you inform him. "I had to give her something. She was going on about my biological clock again."

Jungkook tucks in his shirt as he fastens his pants and buckles his belt. "Do you want me to tell her about us?"

"We can't yet. You know what they'll say. It'll be all about wedding plans and I can't handle that kind of pressure right now."

He tugs at your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it as though you are his queen. "I just wanted to check. I know this is hard for you, being here by yourself."

"Part of me doesn't want to wait anymore to tell them, but I know if we say anything they'll swarm us with talk of grandkids. My mom only supported the Ph.D. because she thought I hadn't found a husband yet."

A pause lingers between you as you contemplate how incredibly unfair your situation is. Jungkook's parents were thrilled by his graduate school acceptance and his dreams of being a scientist, whereas your family thought your career ambitions would stall your "true calling," being a wife and mother.

Jungkook's brow creases in concern, and you look away from his gaze. You can't exhaust yourself venting about things you know will never change.

"If I could transfer and keep my research funding and coursework intact, I would," he stresses, like he has many times before.

You shake your head in protest. "I would never ask you to do that."

"I know, but I feel bad you're dealing with them all on your own right now. My parents have pressured me some about finding someone, but it's nothing like what you've had. Your mom's crazy."

A grin emerges on your face because you know how right he is. "I just need to finish the dissertation and then I can get out of here."

"Then you can move in with me and be my little wifey," he jokes, poking your ribs. "Keep my balls empty and my belly full, as God intended."

"My parents would be thrilled," you huff sarcastically, "but you can shove that pot roast right up your ass."

"This is why I love you," he remarks, pulling you into an embrace. "Feisty bitch. You'll be a great wife. I can't _wait_ to get beaten with a frying pan."

You laugh into his dress shirt and give his torso a squeeze. "We need to head out. Have you seen my panties?"

"Oh, I'm keeping 'em," he says, smiling like you won't need them in the slightest.

"Can I have them back? It'll leak out. It felt like—well, a lot. _A lot_."

"It was a lot," he confirms, trying to contain his amusement.

Sighing, you state, "You're going to make me go back in there to my parents like this."

Jungkook hums and reaches underneath your skirt, tapping your sex with a soft pat from his palm.

"Leave it inside of you, darling," he persuades with a wicked smirk. "I want you to keep me inside of you as long as possible."

"I'll do my best," you assure, pulling on his shirt collar to coax him into a kiss. "I love you."

The seal of his lips presses against yours and it always feels reassuring. His kisses were always pleasing to the touch, natural—secure—and you hated to leave them behind knowing how long you'll wait for the next one.

"I love you, too," he murmurs. "You'd better hurry back in there."

"You're not coming back with me for the Communion?"

"You know I don't believe in that. Plus, I'm sweaty now. Your parents might notice since I sat in front of you guys today."

"Good point," you agree. "I'll head back, then. Be nice to Mom this afternoon, okay?"

"Of course. She'll be my mother-in-law soon enough, remember?"

Your face blooms into a wide smile and you let yourself enjoy that moment, as you take your last look at him and squeeze his hand. He clasps yours in return and taps his chest twice, over his heart, beaming for the same reason you are. The separation is only temporary.

* * *

 

After a quick freshening up of your face in the bathroom, you return to your pew to find your mother's disappointed expression.

"You missed the sermon," she chastises in a tone that makes you feel like you're ten years old again.

"Let me guess, the tomb was empty?" you quip, taking your seat.

"You know I don't like that. He died for your sins and you're going to be appreciative of that."

Licking your lips to contain your rebuttal, you think of Jungkook: his smile, his scent, the rattling sound of plastic play spatulas.

"I'm sorry, Mom," you reply, adopting a calm tone. "I haven't felt well today. I thought fresh air would help, but I ended up in the bathroom and—yeah, I shouldn't have come today."

"You should get into bed earlier tonight, then," she counters, looking pleased to offer unsolicited advice.

"I'll be fine."

You turn your attention to focus on the pastor onstage, now much redder in the face than he had been when you last saw him. _How does he go on without passing out_ , you wonder, watching him wipe his brow with a handkerchief.

"And that's what's so wonderful, church body," he stresses, gripping onto the wooden podium like it was keeping him upright. "Death couldn't hold Him."

"Amen!" a churchgoer calls out too loudly, making you feel unsettled in your seat. It is always that same lady and it's every service. She just _loves_ hearing the sound of her voice, shouting as if she'll skip ahead in line at the pearly gates.

"Thank you, sister," he acknowledges with a point of his finger, leveling her up in the eyes of God. "And the fires of eternal damnation don't have to hold you either, not if you're a believer. The tomb was empty. The price was paid. All you have to do is say, 'yes, Lord.'"

 _And follow a shit ton of rules that are impossible to keep while your fellow believers judge you for not making the right muffins for the prayer breakfast_ , you opine in your head, recalling drama from a few weeks ago. God, you can't wait to get the fuck out of here.

"Yes, Lord!" the church responds in unison.

"So, let us all gather at the altar for Communion, shall we?" The pastor beckons, waving his hands to summon his flock to the front of the room. The old organ off to his right begins to bellow the same tune it has played for Communion for the last twenty years, maybe longer: Grace Greater Than Our Sin. Thankfully, there are only three verses, but the urge to stress the notes during the refrain is almost comical, so you cast your eyes over to the section where the youth group is sitting to watch them. You hope they'll over-exaggerate singing the song to the horror of their parents like they did during Palm Sunday. They are your only hope for entertainment until your turn to publicly eat a cracker and drink subpar wine before the gathering of nosy devotees.

As you stand from your seat in unison with the rest of the church body, you feel it—the tickling of cum droplets threatening to slip from within your folds.

 _Fuck_ , you panic, contracting your pelvic muscles in a paltry attempt to trap Jungkook's seed. Thank god he isn't here to laugh at you, blushing in front of your parents, trying to perform the mother of all Kegel exercises as you wait for the sacrament to conclude.

One by one, the pews in front of you file single-file to partake in the Communion ceremony. When it's your row's turn, you exit and hold your position, waiting for your parents to lead, as is expected of you. You can see they take great pride in participating and seeing you partake with them, although you suspect they are more anxious about the condition of your soul now than they had been when you were a child and didn't think for yourself.

Your trek to the altar is short, but it feels like a cattle-call with all of the other churchgoers crowding around the front. You know other churches pass around the trays of wine and crackers, but yours seems to be more interested in the spectacle of belief, no matter how late it would make you all for the lunch buffet after service. The body and blood of Christ aren't going to hold anyone over, that was for sure, and you wonder whether the minivans cutting out of the church parking lot will be more aggressive today.

The tips of your fingers pinch together to retrieve a small cracker and tiny cup of wine from the gold-plated Communion dishes. It is stuffy again, as there are so many crowding the table, but it makes it easy to keep your legs together and move carefully. Your religious reflexes force you to murmur the words required for the ceremony alongside your parents. Then, like a good Christian, you ingest the cracker and drink the wine, willing the holy store-bought liquid to glide down your throat.

With the taste of devotion on your tongue and deceit in your heart, you feel the trickle of cum down your inner thigh and your soul revels in your wickedness.


End file.
